On the horizon of the sweltering desert, there appears a figure. Just one man, walking, slowly, down the dirt track which passes for a road, carefully negotiating its torn and rutted surface. As he draws closer, his clothing is revealed to be a shabby, red robe - not poorly made, in fact rather opulent, just well used. He carries a large book, and a water skin hangs by his side. His face is old, lined, but there’s something in the set of his jaw that suggests a large measure of strength and serenity.

In front of him, smoke curls into the sky. It’s nearly sunset, and the bluish tinge to the atmosphere gives the scene a strange, half-light feeling. Lying, amid the scorched earth and twisted metal, are the remains of the battle. Most are dead or dying – the victors having pulled out to make good their victory hours ago and only a few echoing shots in the distance tell that the war isn't over. A quick glance tells the man all he needs to know - there are no heroes here. No Homeric paradigmes. Just hurt and dead people. Ordinary people.

Revelations, as most know him, stoops near a fallen soldier, and mutters a few words, making the sign of the cross over him. Where his hands pass, wounds heal. The soldier, dying a few minutes ago, opens his eyes and breaths deeply. Revelations smiles reassuringly, and says a few words to him. Groggily, the man sits, but Revelations has moved on. The next soldier is too far gone, but systematically, the old man begins to work through the battlefield. A few call him by name – Giardi – but to most, he’s just Revelations.

As he works, others begin to arrive – some with trucks and jeeps. Most of them sport Red Crosses, and carry conventional medicines, and set about tending those the father hasn’t got to yet. Others gather the groups together – roughly separated by what side they used to be on. A few arguments break out, and have to be broken up by burly guards or orderlies. Revelations seems not to notice – there are still more to save.